Milk and Honey
by meldahlie
Summary: What happened to Miraz' son and the Countess Erimon and all the other Telmarines who went through The Door at the end of Prince Caspian? One-shot; a sequel to Last Man Out, and a spin-off from The Evidence of Things Not Seen.


Milk and Honey 

What happened to Miraz' son and the Countess Erimon and all the other Telmarines who went through The Door at the end of _Prince Caspian?_

One-shot; a sequel to Last Man Out, and a spin-off from The Evidence of Things Not Seen.

~:~:~

 _A/N: Gwen refused to go further unless there was news of the Countess Erimon. What else could I do?_

 _I hope the prevailing accent does not render the story totally impenetrable, and the usual warnings for theology apply!_

 _~:~:~_

"Ziram! Ziram!"

The voice echoes along the beach, all 'igh an' anxious like old ladies get when they've lost their charges. Eh, but-

Eh, but-! That monkey's vanished. An' a monkey itself couldn't 'ave 'opped it cleaner an' quicker from where 'e was perched on the side of the canoe watching me mend the outrigger 'alf a moment ago. Not a trace.

"Ziram! Ziram!"

Nothing I can do but tell 'er. "Your Ladyship! Countess!"

She looks up as I step out of the shade of the palm thatched shelter the big sea-going canoes live in, and comes down the beach towards me. "Have you found a prince? Again?"

Truth be told, 'e found me nearly 'alf an 'our ago, but that's aside the point. "I 'ad," I nod. "But 'e did a runner when we 'eard you calling."

"Again..." she repeats, a trifle wearily.

Aye, again. Prince Ziram's a lively little lad, an' you 'ave to wonder why they picked 'is nurse to be the oldest lady of the lot as follow the Queen. But then, there's a lot of things as you 'ave to wonder about the Queen an 'er choosings, an' most of the time the Countess Erimon is a sprightly old bird, trotting round after the prince. It's not that 'e doesn't like 'er, that 'e runs away.

"'E's a good lad," I put in. I can 'ardly say 'e doesn't mean to cause 'er grief, that if you listen to 'im talk 'e loves 'is nurse rather more than 'e loves 'is mother. That isn't 'ow it should be, of course. But one of 'em's always 'ad time for 'im as a person, you see, an' t'other's never seemed to care for more than 'is title an' that 'e didn't mess up 'er gowns. The running away's just that: "Most lads of seven are limbs o' mischief, you know. Even princes."

I reckon as a court of ladies forgets that, now an' then. One of the reasons I don't tell 'im to run on 'ome when 'e shows up 'ere.

I've spoken out of me place, for the Countess stands suddenly stiff, an' looks out to sea. Or maybe I 'aven't, for she just goes on standing there, a little straight figure looking straight at the waves, an' looking some'ow sad in doing so.

"I remember," she says after a while. "I had three of them."

I stop just in time, seeing as 'ow she's a countess an' a lady-in-waiting, an' I'm nobbut common Foot, but she looks like needs an 'and on 'er shoulder. "'ad" isn't a word as you should be using for a son. Let alone three of 'em.

I don't know 'ow to ask. But like the 'and, she looks like she could do with the asking, an' I don't reckon it's a thing as the Queen 'ud be thinking to ask. She just took it for granted as we were all coming. That's 'ow I found myself in that line going past-

But that's aside the point. I do the best I can: "They didn't come?"

'Ow you'd let an old lady like 'er go an' not come too or stop 'er despite the Queen– I 'ope I didn't say that out loud. For she shakes 'er 'ead, almost as if she 'eard me thinking.

"Oh no. Dead, all three. Miraz executed them for treason, when he took the throne."

We're silent, she an' I, for a minute. Both just looking at the sea. Then she looks round, gently nodding. "So now I bring up his son, in exile. Don't you think life seems a little pointless, sometimes?"

She says it so quiet-like, so simply, as if I was like 'er an' we were making idle talk at Court, that for a moment I don't take in jus' what she's said.

"Here we live," she goes on, afore I 'ave time to say owt. "A string of tropical islands, hot blue sea, palm thatched huts. And eat fish, and strange roots, and queer grains we cultivate in little garden patches behind spiky cactus hedges that filter off the salt spray, while in the back of everybody's huts is a chest with silks and velvets and chain-mail packed away, unless it's been cut up to make clothes for little children who'll never understand why we don't call this place 'home' – and yet don't call the other place 'home' either. And a court of widows hovers around a prince who'll never have a crown and try to teach him obsolete high court protocol, when he'd far rather and probably far more wisely be down here, learning to mend fishing nets..."

This time, I do forget. But 'er voice trails off so dull an' sad by the end, I can't 'elp but put my 'and on 'er arm. Feels like I'm trying to 'aul somebody back from deep water – deep water they aren't even trying to stay afloat in any more.

"That's one way of looking at it," I manage to get out. It is. But you only 'ave to take one look at this little bent lady beside me to see it isn't a good way to look at it. It's 'ow to get sapped down into that deep 'opeless water – and I don't 'alf wish 'E was 'ere to do the explaining.

"I 'appen to know it's different, really," I put in, in the end.

She just goes on looking at me. "'E sent us, you know," I point out. "For all the Queen says it was 'er nephew. 'E sent us 'ere. We 'ad a choice. There or 'ere."

Far as I see, that makes all the difference. Nothing's pointless in 'Is doings – but the Countess is looking at me rather blankly now.

"Who?" she asks.

"'Im," says I. We all walked past 'Im, after all, even if I was the only one as stopped an' thanked 'Im. Not that I'm bragging on that. I'm jus' glad as I did it, or I'd never 'ave known. "The Great Lion," I add 'cause she's still looking blank. "Aslan."

"Aslan." She repeats the word as flat as an echo off the cliffs. "Yes, I suppose he did." Then she puts 'er 'ead on one side like a bird looking for a worm. "And what difference does that make?"

I suppose it's a snub, that she's trying to remind me of my place an' 'ers. But when it comes to 'Im, I don't reckon as we 'ave places, so much as either knowing 'Im or not.

"Well," I say as politely as I can, "maybe we all 'ad our own reasons for wanting to come an' not to stay in Narnia, but we all chose on 'Is offer. 'E said we could stay, or we could 'ave a free pass an' a new 'ome – and that's what 'E's given us."

I move my 'and off 'er arm afore it might offend 'er, an' wave round at at the 'ole beach about us. "There's everything 'E promised, an' more. We've got wood an' good land an' no bothersome folks on the borders, an' deep wells of fresh water, an' good sailing all round for the fish, an' those little pigs that fatten up nicely, an' not a bear or a wolf in sight."

An' that's all good, but that's not the best thing, so I go on. "An' you know, 'E's 'ere, too. I spoke to 'Im afore I came through that door into the cave in the 'eadland, an' 'E said 'E'd be 'ere if we looked for 'Im. An' I don't reckon you 'ave to look very far. The sun comes up out of the east every morning and over that 'eadland, and it lights up the land an' all that's been given us, and it's like 'E's saying: "'ere I Am."

I've said me say, so I stop. The Countess is quiet for a moment, so all we can 'ear is the waves whispering in, an' the breeze rustling in the palm-thatch above us. Then she shakes 'er 'ead. "I don't understand."

"'ow 'E's 'ere?"

"No." She frowns. "I don't understand how – how you are saying that makes any difference."

Eh, but it's like pigs under an oak tree! An' I don't mean any offence by that, but the 'ole court isn't 'alf like an 'erd of pigs when you put 'em out to run in the woods in the autumn. They pick 'appily through all the acorns an' never once look up to see as where they came from!

There'd be no point in turning a pig's 'ead up. But we aren't pigs. "Because," I say, an' I know I says it stubborn-like, this time, for the Countess looks a trifle startled. "Because it shows as 'E 'appens to care for us. 'E gave us a free pass an' a new 'ome. Even though 'Is army 'ad beaten us an' we said we was 'Is enemies. That wasn't something our old king was in the 'abit of doin'."

Per'aps plain speaking an' stubborn is best, for a brief smile flits across 'er face at this. "No. That's true."

All of it's true. But I suppose in some ways, she an' the Queen an' the other fine ladies as follow 'er don't see 'ow good it is, seeing as 'ow they didn't know the land afore.

"Maybe," I concede, "it's a little different to what we 'ad afore. But we weren't any too grateful or careful with what we 'ad afore. We avoided the sea an' 'acked at the forests an' fought with 'Is people an' said it was all ours."

All ours? Whenever I think of all that, I shake me 'ead. "It was 'Is."

She looks at me dull like, again. "So he came and took it back?"

The way she says it, it's like she's filling in the obvious end to a story – but she 'as it wrong!

"I don't see as 'E did."

"But-"

I probably say rather 'otter than as I ought, 'er being a countess and me being common Foot, but I can't 'elp it. "Nobody 'ud say you'd taken something if you 'anded it to the person as it belonged to!"

Sometimes I wonder if I was the only one as 'ad 'is eyes open, walking through that Door! An' I 'ad two black ones at the time, come of 'aving met a bear in the battle! "There's a king on the throne in Narnia, your Ladyship! An' it 'appens 'e's the one as should've 'ad it as being our old king's son!"

Eh, but it's the truth! An' the Queen spends enough time saying as it was 'er nephew sent 'er 'ere, as it shouldn't be me 'aving to point it out.

"'E 'ad 'Is other Kings an' Queens there," I go on, taking a deep breath afore I find myself getting too cross, for 'E wouldn't want me being cross over it, seeing as 'E wasn't cross. "Those ones as led the way through the door but weren't coming 'ere. But 'E didn't give it to them. 'E gave it to Prince Caspian."

I stop, an' I nod. "No. 'E didn't come to take it back, an' not 'cause of what we did to it, either. Narnia's 'Is land an' 'E loves it, but there'd been nine King Caspians afore this one, an' not one of 'em 'ad been any too good to the land."

The Countess looks up at me, an' then she looks down at 'er 'ands and echoes me words. "Not one of them had been any too good to the land."

"Aye," I says. "An' all those years, 'E didn't come. Not as 'E couldn't 'ave come, an' not as 'E didn't mind. But 'E gave us a chance in 'Is land."

She looks at me, she stares at me, an' this time it's not dull-like or snubbing. It's like she's looking for something in what I'm saying – an' I don't 'alf more'n ever wish 'E was 'ere to do the explaining o' the next bit.

"'E came," I says, as gently as I can, "when we turned on each other. All those other Caspians afore the Prince, none of 'em 'ad 'urried the one afore 'em off the throne. An' they 'adn't made an 'abit of executing men for treasons as they 'adn't committed."

I'm not quite sure 'ow to go on, now, for she stops looking at me an' looks down at 'er 'ands again, an' twists at the old ring as she wears there. Jus' twisting it, round an' round. In the end, she looks up.

"I don't see why," says she. "I don't see why. They were-" She stops, an' then goes on agin. "They were three brave, honest boys – but they weren't that good. Not one of them was any too good to the land. All three of them went with their father on that campaign against the Old Narnians in the north, which killed him with marsh fever. Why should the Lion care? How _could_ He care?"

"'ow?"

"Yes. How?" The countess spreads out 'er 'ands, gentle an' ladylike an' all bewildered. "You have a child. It breaks something. Once might be a mistake. But again and again-?" She smiled, a little twisted smile. "My three boys would have known to expect a whipping."

I can't 'elp it – I laugh. An' mebbe it doesn't matter too much, for she smiles a bit more, as if she might 'ave chuckled an' she weren't so sad.

"I couldn't fathom 'ow, either," I agree. It were one of the things I puzzled over, when we first got 'ere. 'ow? 'E was a King, an' greater than a King, an' it was a king's job to judge rightly – as was one of the things 'E come an' 'ad 'Is other kings call Miraz to account for. But 'E gave us a pass, an' a good pass too – after all we 'ad done in 'Is land, an' said about 'Im.

"I could see 'E was 'ere," I say. That's where we started all this from, after all, an' this time the Countess nods. "But I couldn't see 'ow, as you say. I got to wondering, an' then I got to remembering. I spoke to 'Im, afore I came through that Door, an' 'E said as we could find 'Im 'ere if we looked. So I looked, an' then I remembered as 'ow there was one of 'em old tales as was 'specially frowned on. Of 'ow there was a Witch an' a boy as was a traitor-"

"I think we all heard that one," the Countess breaks in. "When we were all hearing about how Prince Caspian should not have been hearing it from his nurse."

"An' 'e ought to 'ave got it," I finishes, "but the Lion took 'is place an' died for 'im, an' then came back alive an' brought Narnia back alive too. An' I reckoned as if what 'E did counted for everybody then, 'appen as it still counted for everybody now."

I stop, an' she shakes 'er 'ead slightly, as if she was waiting for something an' is disappointed with where I've ended up. "But they're only children's tales."

I dig my 'eels in. "'E was real."

"He was real." She says it like she's never 'eard it afore; like she never walked past 'Im going through the Door; an' then, very slowly, like a leaf wilting in 'ot sun, she turns away an' looks out to the sea an' the east. An' I can't 'elp seeing as she turns as 'er eyes 'ave filled with tears. "What is there to stay in Narnia for?" she whispers – not to me, I'm guessing. She says it like it's someat she's 'eard someone say to 'er, an' she didn't 'ave an answer at the time. "What is there to stay in Narnia for?"

"E's not only in Narnia," I put in after a minute, for she seems more upset than a chap might 'ave expected. "'E's 'ere, too, you know."

"Here?!" She almost jumps – an' I 'adn't expected that, either.

"Aye."

'aven't I been saying so? "'E's 'ere. As 'E said 'E'd be. If 'E wasn't 'ere," I add, as I'm none too sure if she doesn't still look like she doesn't believe me. "D'you think as we'd 'ave arrived 'ere in a cave in an 'eadland as looks like a lion?"

I point out to the sea, an' the 'eadland. It's been there every day since we got 'ere, but sometimes it doesn't 'alf seem as if I'm the only one as ever looked at it. An' it's very much a lion, just lying there an' looking out to sea an' the east an' 'Is eastern end of the world.

The Countess looks at it now. "A lion?" she says. "Here?"

On that one, I'm not too sure. 'E said 'E'd be 'ere, an' 'E is, but I don't know about 'Im being a Lion 'ere. I don't want 'er to think as 'E's not 'ere, but-

"I dunno about that," I say. "Something of a lion about 'Im." Take the 'eadland for proof of that. "But – there aren't Talking Beasts 'ere. Only men. An' I don't know but that if 'E was like 'Is Talking Beasts there, an' knowing their things, 'E'd be like 'Is people 'ere. 'E'll know about life in little 'ouses an' carpentering an' mending fishing nets. I says sometimes, when the nets come up in a bad tangle, I says 'You wouldn't 'elp me straighten this out, would You?' And they sort out much 'andier. Which means," I finish firmly, for I like to get things done an' sorted an' all the knots taken out as it were, "as there isn't anything that's pointless, your Ladyship. Because 'E's 'ere."

She's silent again, an' there's only the noise of the waves an' the wind in the palm-thatch for ages, afore she turns an' considers me up an' down.

"Do you tell these things to Ziram?"

Eh, but I wish she 'adn't asked. For I do, an 'e listens, but I don't want 'im to 'ave to disobey the Queen in coming to 'ear more. But I can't say no.

"I do," I say. "An' I'm 'oping your ladyship doesn't mind-"

The countess suddenly smiles. "Because you'd carry on doing so anyway? And Ziram would carry on running away to listen?"

"I don't think as the Queen would 'appen-" I start, but the countess raises one hand.

"No. But perhaps– " She looks back out at the east an' the 'eadland. "Perhaps the prince's lessons need adjusting, for us to take a walk down here every afternoon before tea." She looks at me an' away quick, as if she's shy to say it. "Perhaps … you could tell both of us."

I'm going to say I'll be 'appy to. But me voice 'as gone 'usky, an' afore I can clear it, someat else 'appens. The little whispers of wind in the palm thatch get altogether louder an' then they turn into a pair of bare feet an' bare legs, an' then a seven year old prince an' limb o' mischief slides down the corner post an' flings 'is arms around the Countess's waist.

E's a good lad, Ziram, though I don't know as what the Queen'll 'ave to say over the state of 'is brown silk tunic, all covered as it is with green mouldy streaks from the thatch. But 'e isn't fussed about that.

"Really?!" he cries, like 'e's never 'eard such fun. "To come here, rather than have grammar and etiquette and all that court nonsense?!"

The Countess stares down at him, an' then brushes back 'is mop of ginger hair an' looks at 'im an' 'is freckles more closely.

"Yes, Ziram," she says eventually. "Instead of all that nonsense."

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Excerpt from a letter from the representative of the South Sea Mission Society to Mission Headquarters in London:

 _..._ _as the initial reports said, the majority of the inhabitants of the Aslanic Islands have little religious concept at all, beyond a fear of ghosts. However, amongst the minority ruling elite, there flourishes a religious system of striking familiarity, although under a primitive gloss. I hesitate to use the word primitive, although it must be so. It is almost unsettlingly allegorical, and they displayed an enviable enthusiasm to propound it to us. They hold to the idea of a god and supreme ruler "over the sea"; and of his son incarnate in the form of a lion, who appeared among them in some former age_ _to redeem them by a sacrificial death;_ _and_ _that they were then_ _sent to these islands, where he_ _is once again_ _alive, and_ _with them yet, although not visible_ _._

 _I leave it to your own conclusions. For my part, I can only assume there has been some previous undocumented mission work in these islands..._

 _~:~:~_

 _A/N 2: So, the hundredth story! Accordingly, the plot bunnies are giving out fresh strawberries, raspberries and random hugs! Guesses as to the origin of the title are welcome :)_

 _~:~:~_


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